


the lies (truths) you whisper against my skin

by dodono



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Blood, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 17:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12940290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodono/pseuds/dodono
Summary: Momota tells her she's a good person.Harukawa tells him he's a liar.





	the lies (truths) you whisper against my skin

**Author's Note:**

> vent fic

Half-lidded eyes watch as pink swirls down the drain. 

The loofah has been scrubbing against her arm for the past five minutes. Or was it ten? Harukawa can’t remember, and she can only feel how sensitive her skin has become. 

She still has her legs to go. Glancing down, they’re covered in pink even though she’s been standing under the running water since two in the morning. The blood should’ve washed away after a few minutes. It’s been two hours. Or maybe even longer since it’s easy to lose track of time when there’s so much blood that needs to be rinsed away. 

Harukawa’s hands are tainted in pink. No amount soap or scrubbing could ever remove it but she tries anyway. Scrubs over and over again until her hands are numb and raw. 

That’s fine. It’s always difficult to remove someone else’s blood. Harukawa glances at her legs once again, eyes tracing the lines scattered across the limbs through the steam. It’ll be easier to remove her own. She squeezes her eyes shut and rubs them tiredly, letting out a sigh. 

And when she opens them again, the lines are still there, the only difference is that they’re white, not pink, and the water has been running clear. 

 

—

 

Momota calls her name from the end of the hallway, the last syllable bouncing off the walls. He tells her she’s a good person with eyes that are way too soft to be directed at her. 

Harukawa, impatient and ready to hide in her room, hisses at him telling him he’s a liar. 

 

—

 

Her hand tightening around Ouma’s small throat should have been a satisfying experience after he outed her, but all she felt was bile rising up in her own when she spots his pale skin turn to the faintest shade of purple. 

Slamming her room’s door open, Harukawa storms in and barely registers herself shutting the door closed. Instead, she focuses on rushing into the bathroom for the mirror. She tilts her head up and bares her throat, turning her head towards the left, then to the right, and is met with nothing but unblemished skin. Harukawa takes a sigh of relief and then blinks. 

And suddenly, there are bruises littered all over her throat and she can’t  _ breathe _ . 

She can’t meet her deadline and is forced to return back with nothing but failure. Their hands, so large compared to her thin, fragile neck, are on her in  _ seconds _ the moment she delivers the news. It hurts, it hurts so much but she’s only ten and her arms are too weak to pry them off. 

Harukawa stumbles out of the bathroom and tears off the bow on her shirt, tripping over her feet and crashing against a wall. She slides down against the wall and her fingers are clawing desperately against her throat, leaving streaks of red. The hands won’t go away and she’s only got a few seconds to live and she _ can’t go like this- _

The pain stops her illusions abruptly. She’s not ten anymore, but seventeen and a mess with her fingernails digging deep against her skin. And although she’s now hyper-aware of her surroundings, the back of her mind tells her to press harder until pink drips down. Harukawa thinks she’ll do everyone a favor if she killed herself right there and then. 

(Except one person. She’ll be upsetting him.)

There’s a knock on her door and a familiar voice, deep and laced with concern, asking if she’s alright. Harukawa almost believes someone’s worried about her but then remembers that she’s dizzy and can barely tell which way is up. 

 

—

 

Momota sits next to her and finishes up his breakfast. Right before he leaves he tells her she’s a good person. 

Harukawa scoffs in reply, telling him that he’s a liar. Ignoring his baffled expression, she takes another spoonful of miso soup. 

 

—

 

The Necronomicon is stupid, and so is Momota. 

All she’s heard is him shrieking for the past ten minutes every single time someone mentions bringing one of their dead classmates back. And to top it all off, his response on how he’s not afraid is one of the dumbest lies she’s ever heard in her miserable life. 

Momota’s too jumpy, and he picks her to hug. He has her in his embrace and he’s babbling about protecting her, refusing to admit that he’s afraid. 

Suddenly, Harukawa’s eleven and trying to run away. And even though she’s supposedly the best in the organization, her shorter legs are no match for an adult’s, and they’ve captured her; their arms are too tight around her and she’s struggling to break free. There’s a hand over her face and it’s hard to breath. She can feel her eyes closing. 

Harukawa hits Momota hard enough for him to back away from her and he coughs violently. She’s trying not to hyperventilate because she’s Harukawa Maki, the girl who shows no fear and has a heart of stone. 

They’ve caused a commotion and all she wants is for them to look away. Harukawa can still feel the arms around her and her tears threaten to fall. 

 

—

 

Momota, his rough, calloused hands cupping her face and brushing his thumb against her jaw, kisses her forehead and tells her she’s a good person. 

Harukawa, hands previously gripping onto his t-shirt as if it were a lifeline, roughly pushes him away and tells him he’s a liar. 

 

—

 

Harukawa tugs the red seifuku over her head violently, wincing when her long hair tangles and gets stuck underneath one of the snaps. She gives up and flings the shirt against the bathroom wall, the strands snapping, but she pays no mind. What she does mind, though, are the lines of pink (no, it’s red. But it’s so bright) spanning across her back. Standing with her back facing the mirror and turning her head awkwardly, she can see the cuts dripping blood down her back, passing over other lacerations. There’s so many, she notes, her eyes stinging as the pink soaks into the fabric of her white bra. It’ll be hard to wash out, but with the number of times she’s done this it’ll be a breeze. 

Blinking harshly then squeezing her eyes shut tightly until the sting lessened, Harukawa’s tries to bottle up her pain. She opens her eyes and after her vision was no longer blurry, the pink that originally contrasted against her pale skin disappeared, leaving behind bumpy white lines of different thicknesses. 

Harukawa tentatively touches one of the scars with cold fingers, the digits fluttering over and she retracts as if the injuries were burning her. Bringing her free hand up she places the side of her index finger in her mouth and bites hard (there’s no taste of metal) and whimpers as tears roll down her cheeks. 

Because when she had opened up and told Momota and Saihara about her dislike for swords, dumb, dense, idiotic Momota laughs it off like nothing hurts. But it  _ does _ hurt. Saihara chuckles along and she mimics them even though her back is on fire and she can still feel the metal against her skin and everything hurts hurts  _ hurts _ .

She thinks she deserves it. It’s painful and it scars her but she’s a horrible person and horrible people deserve punishment. So she shuts up and never whimpers, doesn’t make a sound, even as the sharp edge once again makes its way down onto her back. Harukawa apologizes to every single person she’s murdered and simultaneously wishes she had never volunteered for them to take her away from the orphanage. She berates herself for not doing a better job, for letting a crowd slow her down. She’s supposed to be the best in the organization (even though she’s only a child at the age of twelve) and she fucked up and she  _ deserves _ this. 

Grabbing the closest item near her, she hurls it hard against the mirror, shattering it so she doesn’t have to see her pathetic face, cheeks red and eyes puffy and tear tracks on her skin that won’t dry. 

Harukawa considers picking up a shard to add another line into her collection. 

 

—

 

Momota kisses her so passionately and so suddenly that she’s thrown off guard. His arms are tight around her waist and he pulls her closer, only pulling back a bit to tell her that she’s a good person against her chapped lips. 

Harukawa initiates the second kiss and mumbles that he’s a liar in between small pecks here and there, but it’s probably not true because for the briefest second she doesn’t even believe her own words. 

 

—

 

Whoever designed her uniform receives her gratitude. 

Harukawa’s glad that her outfit included thigh highs, which managed the cover her ugly, scar-marked legs. She draws her knees up to her chest and runs her fingers over her fabric-clad shin, hissing when she feels one of the scars open. She thinks it opened (but it’s been healed for years). Each one is a failure, and they’re always from the same people. 

Momota’s in the shower and when he’s done, he’ll ask if she wants to go next. She’ll have to borrow his shirt but she can’t wear his pants because they’re too large on her, and she can’t afford to let him see how grotesque her legs are. Momota would only grow more concerned for her and she’s not worth it. Maybe she’ll just head back to her room. 

There’s a thud that gains her attention, and she notices that the pocket knife she carries around has fallen onto the floor. 

It’s a shame that whoever designed her seifuku didn’t make the sleeves longer, stopping it at the middle of her forearm. It’ll be hard to hide but, Harukawa flips the blade out expertly, entranced by the shine, it’ll all be over soon. After all, it’s only one more scar to add onto her collection, and people liked to collect things, right?

Harukawa barely presses the tip of the blade against her skin when Momota exits and spots her. She freaks and drops the knife, the noise from its impact too loud in her ears. That’s all Momota needs to see but he stays quiet. Instead, he asks her if she wants to stay and she nods. They slip into his bed, both ignoring the fact that Harukawa hasn’t showered, and Momota holds her securely in his arms. 

Right when she’s about the fall into slumber, Momota whispers to her that he’s glad she’s here and he wants her to be safe. Harukawa grips the back of his shirt in her fists and thinks to herself that she can’t promise anything. 

 

—

 

Momota wraps his arms around her tightly and rests his chin on her shoulder, coughing once and Harukawa feels the blood, slick and warm, splatter against the crook of her neck. He weakly presses his cold lips against her jawline and whispers in her ear that she’s a good person. 

Harukawa, for the first time in weeks, wholeheartedly believes that he’s a liar. Because if he wasn’t, she wouldn’t be a wreck and crying over his dead body. 


End file.
